


Everything's Growing in Our Garden

by god_commissioned_me



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Canon Asexual Character, Cats, Flowers, Fluff, Gender Non-Conforming Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:35:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26688271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/god_commissioned_me/pseuds/god_commissioned_me
Summary: Martin finds a lost cat and calls the number on its tag and expects that to be the end of it. What he doesn’t expect is for the cat to live in a secondhand bookshop that’s almost as charming as its owner.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 43
Kudos: 282





	Everything's Growing in Our Garden

**Author's Note:**

> what if i ignored my published wips or my fully outlined unpublished wips and wrote fluff with cats instead?  
> everyone is trans and neurodivergent bc *i’m* trans and neurodivergent and don’t know how to write characters any other way. jon uses he/they pronouns  
> title from 'garden song' by phoebe bridgers

The muffled jingling in the alleyway makes Martin falter as he walks past it on his way home from work. It’s a small, faint sound, but it’s too dark to see where it’s coming from, and Martin has heard too many stories of midnight muggings to want to venture into the shadows to explore. He’s just picked up his pace, though, when he hears a tiny cry that makes him pause again.

“Hello?” he calls tentatively. He casts a nervous glance around him, checking for anyone else on the street. It’s late, but it’s also a Saturday, which means there are still a few people in sight. There’s a corner store spilling light onto the street across from the alley too, which makes him feel a little less terrified about turning toward the shadows again. “Is - is someone there?”

There’s a sad mewling, and then a brown tabby cat with a fluffy white chest pokes its head around the corner. The jingling noise comes again. This time, Martin recognizes it as the sound of a bell. 

“Oh, baby,” he coos, dropping to one knee and extending a hand, forgetting his nervousness in an instant. The cat has a well-padded belly and a clean, red collar. It’s obviously not a stray - but there are no flats on this block, so it almost certainly doesn’t live in the immediate area. “How’d you get out here, huh? Where’s your family?”

The cat mreeps at him and sniffs his hand before bumping it with its wet nose. Martin strokes its cheek with a single, gentle finger and looks around again as if the cat’s owner will suddenly appear. In response, the cat rubs its body against Martin’s leg and meows again. It still sounds frightened, but less so than it had in the alleyway. Martin can feel it trembling slightly against him and swallows down a pang of sympathy.

“Yeah, it’s a bit cold tonight, isn’t it? London streets aren’t the best place to be wandering about alone, you know. Will you let me pick you up?”

The cat just blinks up at him, so Martin tentatively gathers the cat into his arms and, when it shows no signs of scrambling and clawing to freedom, rises off his knee and tucks the cat into his jacket. He can see now that there are a pair of tags beside the cat’s bell. He squints. “The Archivist. Huh, that’s - that’s a funny name, isn’t it?”

The cat meows plaintively. 

“Right, right, sorry. Um.” Martin pets the cat awkwardly with one hand, holding it against his chest with the other and giving the street one last look over. There is no sign of anyone searching for a lost cat. He glances at the tags again and sees a phone number engraved beneath the name. “I guess I should call your family, huh?”

But the idea of standing on this street corner holding a lost cat and waiting for a stranger to appear does not sound appealing. Martin shifts his weight and considers for a moment before deciding to finish his walk home before he calls the number. At least then he and the cat can warm up, and he doesn’t have to risk the cat leaping out of his arms and disappearing into the night. 

“How do you feel about a little stroll, Archivist?” he asks.

The cat mews agreeably, so Martin sets off once more.

It’s only about a ten minute walk to his flat from here, and Martin makes sure to keep a careful grip on the passenger wrapped in his jacket until they’re safely behind his door. Once inside, it’s as if the cat knows it’s safe and wriggles free to jump onto Martin’s armchair. Martin gives it a few scritches under its cinnamon colored chin, then sighs and flips the tags on its collar over. He might as well call now; there’s no use in wasting time when someone’s probably off worrying about their lost cat. The Archivist seems well taken care of - well loved, probably. It sits prim and still while he types the number into his phone one-handed. “Here goes,” Martin says. The cat blinks and licks its paw.

The ring tone echoes a bit in Martin’s flat. For a moment, he starts to worry that no one will answer, but at the last moment the ringing cuts off and is interrupted with a tight, “Yes?”

“Hi,” Martin says nervously. “I’ve found a… cat? I think maybe it’s - ”

“Oh thank Christ,” the voice on the other end of the phone says, loud and possibly tearful. “Is he okay? Is he hurt? Where is he?”

“Oh! Oh, no, he’s perfectly fine!”

“Are you at a shelter?” the voice asks.

“No, no, I’m, I’ve brought him to my flat,” Martin says . “I-is that okay? He was on the street and I didn’t want - ”

The person cuts him off again with a pained noise. “Right, can I, can I have the address? I’m on my way right now.” The tail end of their sentence is slightly overshadowed by a loud sound that sounds like a bus passing by.

“Of course!” Martin rattles off his address.

“Oh, that’s - that’s not too far. Right, I’ll, um, I’ll be there soon.” They sound out of breath, maybe like they’re running.

Martin feels a burst of pity for the person, apparently out on the streets searching for their cat, and looks over at the Archivist, who is still grooming himself quite obliviously. “Okay! Just buzz and I’ll let you up.” He puts his phone away and looks down at the cat. “I think you’ve made someone very worried, sir,” he says quietly.

The Archivist’s ears twitch briefly before he folds his paws beneath his body, assuming the loaf position. Martin smiles and runs his fingertips through his excellent, soft fur. “Don’t get too cozy,” he warns. “I’m sure your owner will be here to take you home soon.”

The cat eyes him.

“Do you want something?” Martin tilts his head. “You’re probably hungry. I don’t know if I have anything that’s safe for cats - oh! Eggs, maybe? Do you like eggs?” The Archivist bumps his head against Martin’s wrist. He grins and turns toward the kitchen. “Just the one, okay?”

It can’t hurt to enjoy a few minutes just taking care of the cat, he tells himself. It’s been so long since there’s been another living creature in his flat; he might as well make the most of it.

The cat leaps down from the chair and follows him, making a series of curious mews. “Oh! I guess I should - are you thirsty?” Martin takes down a small bowl from his cabinets and fills it with water. He sets it on the floor beside his refrigerator before rummaging inside it for the carton of eggs. It doesn’t take long at all to scramble it, the Archivist waiting patiently beside the water as he works. When he’s done, he deposits the egg onto a plate and taps it lightly, checking that it’s not too hot before he drops cross-legged onto the floor and places it down in front of the cat. “There you are.”

The Archivist sniffs the egg daintily before making quick work of devouring it. “Yeah,” Martin says gently. “Yeah, that’s better, isn’t it?”

He’s interrupted from further crooning by a loud buzz. Martin hurries off the floor to let the Archivist’s owner in.

The person who rushes into the flat is equal parts disheveled and frantic, all wide eyes and hair tumbling free of a ponytail around cheeks pink from the cold - or maybe from crying, though it’s hard to tell. “Archivist!” they cry, lurching toward the cat and scooping him up into their arms in a quick, jerky motion. They bury their face in the cat’s side with a sound that’s half-sigh, half-sob. “Christ, I was so worried.”

The Archivist meows long and high, and the person retracts their face from his fur to check him over for any signs of injuries. It occurs to Martin that the person isn’t wearing a coat; they’re only wearing a thin maroon jumper over a calf-length dress and tights, as if they’d rushed out after their cat without a thought for themself.

“He’s - I don’t think there’s anything wrong with him,” Martin says awkwardly, standing by the door. 

The person turns to face him. “I’ve been looking for him for  _ hours  _ \- the door must not have closed properly and he got out without me seeing. I have no idea how long he was gone before I realized.  _ Christ _ . I thought - I was afraid - ” They let out another long, shuddering sigh and grip the cat closer to their body as if afraid he’ll slip through their hands. “I’m sorry, Archivist,” they murmur against the cat’s head.

“I’m, um, glad I found him.” Martin puts his hands in his jacket pockets. Then, “I’m Martin.” He doesn’t know why he adds that.

“Oh, I, I’m Jon,” the person says absently. They rub their chin against the Archivist’s, as if scratching him with their dark stubble, then seem to notice the dishes on the floor. 

“He seemed hungry,” Martin explains. “I gave him an egg - I hope that’s okay.”

Jon blinks. “Oh. You…? Y-yes, that’s - plain eggs are fine for cats - not in excess, of course, but, um. Occasionally.” They trail off, looking dazed, and then press a fervent kiss between the Archivist’s ears. They whisper something to the cat that Martin can’t understand before continuing, “I’ll get out of your hair now” and walking toward the door.

Martin blinks and steps aside, pulling the door open for Jon and the Archivist to cross through. 

“Um… nice to meet you?” he says, voice breathy with an uncertain laugh. “Bye, Archivist.” He lets the door fall shut behind them.

Well. He stands there a moment longer in the fresh silence of his flat before shrugging and finally discarding his jacket. 

It was nice to have a little excitement to break up the monotony of his day-to-day. It’s been a fair bit since he got to pet a cat, so he’s happy for the chance. But now, alone in his dismally decorated flat, the weight of his own exhaustion creeps over him again. It’s pushing nearly 1 am, and he’s just spent two shifts back to back on his feet. He sheds his shoes and trousers on his way to his bed, not bothering to pick up the dishes the Archivist left behind. He wishes briefly that he’d thought to take a picture to remember the cat by, and then he’s tumbling into sleep still dressed in his jumper.

\---

The Archivist makes a squeaky sound of protest halfway down the block away from his rescuer’s flat, and Jon freezes, briefly terrified that he’s injured somehow after all before he realizes that he’s just gripping the cat too tightly to his chest. “Sorry,” he says softly, adjusting his hold. “I don’t want to lose you again.”

The Archivist, scoundrel as he is, turns an unimpressed look up at him. 

“Yes, yes, I know, it’s - it’s my fault, I should have been paying better attention.” Jon sighs and picks up their pace. It’s cold out, and they hate walking alone at night. For all of the Archivist’s qualities, defense is not one of them. Neither is staying in one place near home and waiting to be found, apparently, as evidenced by the distance he’d covered before being picked up by Martin. It’s only about a mile from the bookshop, according to the gps app on Jon’s phone, but it’s still a big journey for a little cat. 

Or, Jon revises internally as his arms begin to ache from carrying the archivist, even for a big cat.

Unless, of course, Martin had carried him to his flat instead of finding him outside it. Jon realizes suddenly that they never asked where he’d found the Archivist. He’d been too dizzy with relief to think clearly at all, much less to say anything useful.

Oh. Oh, had he thanked Martin? Jon bites the inside of their cheek and tries to replay the conversations on the phone and in Martin’s flat, but no matter how hard they try to pick through their frenzied babbling they can’t recall a  _ thank you.  _ He winces slightly. One more thing to feel guilty about tonight.

A shiver that has nothing to do with the cold rips through him. The heady adrenaline that’s swallowed him up all night has faded into a low thrum of anxious energy that barely overshadows his fatigue. They close their eyes briefly and exhale. 

He doesn’t know exactly when the Archivist had escaped. He’d locked up the bookshop for the night and called him for dinner but had heard no telltale jingling of his little bell. Concern had bubbled into panic when, after a half-hour of searching, he realized that he was nowhere in the shop or the tiny flat upstairs.

Jon’s heart clenches hard when he replays that horrible moment, how he’d rushed out the door calling for the Archivist so loudly the couple walking past had glared at him. How he’d been so blinded by tears that he couldn’t tell if any of the shapes on the street or sidewalks outside had been rubbish or - something else. How he’d been choked with guilt when he called Georgie to explain that his cat was lost, how she had tried and failed to soothe him when she showed up and promised to help him search.

As if summoned, his phone lets out a comically distorted “ _ oooo _ ” - the custom ringtone Georgie had set for herself - just as he’s fumbling with his keys at the entrance to the bookshop. Jon hurries inside and lets the Archivist jump onto the front counter while he fishes his phone out of his pocket.

“Did you get him?” she demands as soon as he answers.

“Yes, he’s - he’s okay.” Jon sags against the counter.

Georgie lets out a long, loud sigh. “Good. I’m glad.”

“Yeah,” Jon says softly. “Me too. Yeah.”

“Back home yet?”

“Only just.” 

The Archivist rubs against Jon’s arm and meows.

“Oh, there’s the boy,” Georgie coos. “Tell him he’s only saved from a scolding because I love him so much.”

“Don’t worry, he’s heard it from me already.” Jon laughs, but it’s a strained, tired sound. He checks the time and winces. “Right. I’m off to bed now.”

The Archivist perks up at those words and jumps down from the counter to disappear between the cluttered bookshelves. Jon spares a glance at all the work he’d meant to do after closing earlier and sighs again before following him to the back of the store and up the narrow stairs leading to his flat. 

In bed, the Archivist curls up on their chest, purring. Jon rests a hand on his soft back and is overcome by another rush of gratitude for the man who’d found him before drifting into unconsciousness.

Despite not going to bed until the wee hours of the morning, Jon is awake before seven am and bustling around the bookshop by half past. The anxious energy from yesterday has faded into his usual restlessness, ensuring that he won’t be able to sit still. There’s too much to do in the shop to lie in, anyway. An occasional shudder runs through him when he thinks of what  _ could  _ have happened, how he could be spending his day - still searching desperately for the Archivist or, worse, grieving him. He closes his eyes tight and tries to force the thought away. There’s no sense in flustering themself over what-ifs. Still, they find themself frequently peeking around the corner to ensure the Archivist is still safely snoozing in his plush armchair by the paranormal shelf, in perfect reach of the sunbeams pouring through the shop’s front window. The tabby hasn’t moved since he last checked, except to tuck his nose drowsily into his tail. 

Jon smiles and steps around the shelf to get a better angle before they snap a photo with their phone. The Archivist yawns and curls a single paw over his eyes. It’s a real danger to Jon’s heart, and he can’t stop himself from crouching to stroke through his warm, brown fur before he sends the photo to Georgie. In return, he receives a photo of the Archivist’s brother, the Admiral, curled up on a pillow beside Georgie’s head. 

_ I’m glad you got him back, Jon <3 _

_ So am I. Glad someone was kind enough to stop and make _

_ sure he was okay. _

Jon doesn’t want to think of what might have happened had the person who eventually found the Archivist not been kind enough to take him in until Jon could get to him. Luckily Martin had been ever so soft and sweet. There’d been nothing but gentle concern in his dark eyes when he’d let Jon into his home. Jon finds himself smiling, relief still so palpable that it tries to crawl out of him at every opportunity. That’s his Archivist, he supposes, winning the hearts of everyone he met. Martin especially must have been taken with him. He’d even gone so far as to feed the Archivist. 

Jon feels another soft pang of guilt at that. Martin deserves a reward of some kind for stopping to take the Archivist indoors and calling Jon, and he doesn’t think he’d even offered a simple ‘thank you.’ He wonders if Martin had thought him rude but supposes it doesn’t matter too terribly much. He doubts he’ll ever see him again.

But then… they did have his number. Jon taps their call history. There it is, a string of unsaved numbers nestled between calls to and from Georgie. He could always call back, thank him now. But the thought of a phone call to someone he barely knows makes him cringe. 

There are other ways, though. Jon swaps his screen back to the photo of the Archivist. If  _ he  _ had found a lost cat, he would want to know later that the cat was okay. 

Before they can think too hard about it, they send the photo to the unsaved number.

_ He’s happy to be home again. Thank you for taking care of him.  _

_ [attached: one image] _

Then he drops his phone into the front pocket of his soft, corduroy overalls and returns to work. He’s got quite a lot of organizing to get done before the shop opens for the day. Between the boxes customers have brought in to sell to him and the boxes of old stock he still hasn’t found time to put away since the front half of the shop was renovated, he’s practically smothered in piles of work. It’s embarrassing, frankly, for the evidence of how overwhelming the shop has become to be laid out literally in the paths of anyone who crosses his threshold. 

It’s getting harder, too, to convince Georgie and the others that he can handle it on his own. It isn’t that they haven’t offered to help him - he’s had to all but bodily remove Tim and Sasha more than once. But he knows how busy they all are, living their own successful lives, and the thought of adding more burden to their own workloads is just as distasteful as the thought of them deciding he’s in over his head.

He’s just reaching halfway through shelving the second box when his phone chimes. He fishes it out again to read the text message.

_ oh my god, does he live in a bookshop? _

_ and you’re welcome ofc :) _

Jon’s lips tug upwards in a smile. 

_ He does. _

Then they hesitate. He doesn’t have much to give to show his thanks, but there is one thing he can offer. And Martin deserves  _ something  _ more - the Archivist was the most important thing in Jon’s world, and without Martin he could have lost him forever. So they carefully type out another message.

_ Actually, if you’d like, you’re welcome to come by the shop sometime and _

_ pick out a book to take home for free. I’m sorry I can’t offer more of a _

_ reward. _

_ no reward needed! but thank you for offering :) _

The text comes back quickly, typing bubbles appearing almost the moment his own message had been delivered. Jon frowns. Why is that so disappointing? He hates feeling like he owes someone a favor, he reasons, and he absolutely owes Martin. Probably more than he’s ever owed anyone other than Georgie, he thinks, glancing toward the Archivist’s bed again, if emotional significance is the deciding factor. 

_ It’s the least I can do, really. If you change your mind, he lives at  _

_ Statements and Supplementals. We’re open 10-7 every day. _

Jon doesn’t receive another message from Martin. He wonders if perhaps it wasn’t wise to advertise his location to a stranger, but - well, it’s not like he doesn’t already know where Martin lives. And he hadn’t said  _ he  _ lives here as well, so it’s fine. They shrug and slip their phone into their pocket again before returning to work.

Even after he opens the shop for the day, he stays busy unpacking and shelving. He’s immersed enough in his work that he doesn’t have much time for daydreaming. Still, by the time afternoon begins to wane, he realizes that every time the door chime announces a visitor, he’s been looking up hopefully for a pair of gentle, brown eyes. 

\---

Martin doesn’t respond to Jon’s text, but he can’t stop thinking about how adorable the Archivist had looked curled up in his bookshop home. Still, he doubts he’ll take Jon up on the offer to come by the shop. He just doesn’t have time for things like reading lately, not with the extra shifts Mr. Lukas keeps giving him at The London Fog. And in the free time he actually does have, he’s usually too tired to focus on staring at a page. More often than not, he ends up dozing in front of his television or staring mindlessly out the window at the park in the distance, thinking about going for a stroll but never quite managing to find the energy to do it. 

That doesn’t stop him from doing a search on Statements and Supplementals when he finally has a moment to breathe between customers. There isn’t much information about it online - they don’t have any social media pages, but he manages to find a couple of pictures anyway. It looks like a rather eclectic secondhand bookshop, the kind he imagines grandmothers and alt teens alike perusing. The kind he imagines  _ himself  _ perusing, if he were living the life he wants and not the one he’s currently wading through.

He puts his phone away and makes himself useful by brewing an overspiced cup of chai for Melanie, who’s just come in for the day, and a gently steaming green tea for himself. In spite of its name, The London Fog isn’t actually known for its tea - but Martin is, and he likes the habit he’s built of refilling his and his coworkers’ mugs during lulls.

Melanie doesn’t thank him (she never does) but she flashes him a grin that shows off her smiley piercing as she scoops up the drink. “Texting on the job? Got someone you want to tell me about?”

“What? No!” Martin laughs and waves her off. “Just looking up this bookshop.”

Melanie wrinkles her nose. “If you’re going on another poetry kick, leave me out of it.”

“Not quite.” Martin hesitates. “I found this cat last night. Returned him to his owner, you know. Turns out he’s a bookshop cat, and the owner invited me to come by the shop sometime.”

“And are you?”

Martin shrugs. 

He’s not sure how Melanie manages to have both an annoyed grunt and a friendly grunt, but it’s the latter she makes over her mug. 

Then Martin remembers something. “Wait, don’t you have another date tonight?”

Melanie grins again. “Yep. She’s introducing me to some friends.”

“Must be going well,” Martin observes. Then, “I’m surprised Mr. Lukas didn’t ask me to close again if you won’t be.”

Neither of them have time to say anything else, though, because a family of four chooses this moment to come through the bistro’s door. Martin carefully places his tea on the counter and crosses the floor to lead them to a booth with a welcoming smile.

The rest of his shift is uneventful, but he can’t stop thinking about the bookshop cat. It  _ would  _ be nice to see the Archivist again, to have another chance to scratch his truly remarkable chin. And maybe bringing home a new book will be the kick he needs to find an interest in reading again. He’s sure he can find something eye catching in the jumbled shelves he’d seen online. 

It can’t  _ hurt  _ anything, he finally decides, and it might be pleasant. 

And so he finds himself taking a brief detour on his way home.

Statements and Supplementals is, as it turns out, only a block out of the way from his usual route to and from work. It’s a tall, narrow building squished between an antiques store and an art studio. There are flower boxes with soft purple blossoms on the second storey windows.

More important to Martin is the larger window on the main floor, through which a familiar, fluffy face is peering back at him. Martin smiles and presses a finger to the glass. The Archivist bats at it fruitlessly.

He opens the door and jumps a little at the loud chime that sounds. The Archivist hops out of the window and trots over to him with a happy meow.

“Hello there,” he says, bending down to pet him. “Remember me?”

There’s a slight scuffling noise somewhere out of sight before Jon ducks his head around a shelf at him. “What can I help you - oh! It’s you.” They step fully around the shelf, hands coming up to twist a strand of long hair. Their face is rapidly flushing.

Martin offers a half-wave. “It’s me.”

Jon hesitates and then takes a few steps closer. They’re wearing that maroon jumper again, though this time it’s beneath a pair of soft corduroy overalls that are cuffed a little higher than necessary. There’s a pin on one of the straps. Martin squints at it, recognizing its pink, blue, and white stripes.  _ He/They _ . A little burst of warmth and recognition brings a wider smile to his face. 

“Here for your free book?” Jon asks.

“I suppose I am. Though mostly I just wanted to see the Archivist again.”

A flush of pride crosses Jon’s face. “He’s… very good.” He pauses. “Well, usually. Yesterday he was  _ very naughty _ .” His voice turns stern on the last words, and he shakes a finger at the Archivist before giving a breathless laugh and turning his bright eyes on Martin. “Really, I - I can’t thank you enough for finding him. I don’t know what I would have done if…” They swallow.

Martin nods, understanding. “Happy to help! And to have made a new friend,” he adds in a baby voice, bestowing the Archivist with another stroke.

The Archivist chirps and turns away, vanishing through the shelves.

Jon smiles shyly as Martin stands. “So, what sort of book were you interested in?”

“Oh, er, I’m not sure, actually. It’s been a while since I’ve… read for pleasure.” He feels a little guilty about admitting it, but Jon’s expression doesn’t change. “I enjoy poetry, I guess?”

Jon wrinkles their nose. “Well, I’ve got a few options for you, but I’ll admit it’s not my biggest section.” He turns, motioning for Martin to follow.

“Wait - yours? Is this your shop?” Martin glances around as Jon leads him deeper through the shelves. 

“It is.” Jon sounds almost bashful. “It’s - it’s a bit of a mess right now. Just reopened after some renovations, but I probably should have waited another few weeks to get everything back in order. I just… never seem to have enough time in the day.”

“I’m sure the Archivist is a great help, though,” Martin jokes, catching another glimpse of the cat batting at a toy that’s been left by the graphic novel shelf.

Jon glances over his shoulder with another small smile. “I could never subject him to the woes of labor. Here we are.” He gestures to a shelf marked  _ Poems. _ It’s certainly more sparse than some of the other sections, but Martin recognizes a few names. Jon twists their fingers in their hair again, looking between the shelf and Martin with a wide-eyed expression that looks very much like someone who wants to be proud of something they’ve made but aren’t quite sure if they should be.

“Lovely,” Martin says, because Jon is. The shop is. He realizes they’re staring at each other and coughs into the back of his hand. Jon’s face turns a shade darker.

The door chimes again, and Jon jumps. “I should - er. Take your time looking around!” They hurry back toward the front of the shop. 

Martin watches him go, then spends several minutes looking over the selection of poetry. It’s an odd mixture of newer stuff, the kind with big blanks on the pages between lines, and poetry spanning from the Renaissance to the Romantic era. He’s most drawn to the latter, but he already has a few volumes of Keats and the like shoved in his closet somewhere. He thinks of the cooling air and falling leaves outdoors and thinks it’d be nice to have something  _ cozy  _ for once. He wonders if that’s a label on one of the shelves. The descriptor certainly seems to fit the shop itself, with its armchair and cherry wood shelves and friendly cat and earnest owner. Even the clutter seems inviting. Intriguing, at the least, like something to learn and explore.

He can hear Jon talking to the other customer somewhere out of sight, his voice high and animated. It’s a drastic difference from the tight weepiness of last night. It makes Martin feel warm again, that he’d done something to help Jon, saved him from feeling so distraught.  _ Bit knight in shining armor of you, eh? _ he thinks wryly. 

Well. It’s nice to feel helpful, anyway.

He stumbles on a box when he turns a corner and barely swallows what would’ve been an embarrassing yelp. There’s no change in the voices in the front of the store, but the Archivist comes running over to investigate. 

“You’ve got a maze to work with, haven’t you?” Martin whispers as the cat sniffs the box he’d nearly fallen over. Jon wasn’t exaggerating when they said the shop was a bit of a mess. This box isn’t the only one of its kind - he can see another shoved up beside the picture book section, and a third and fourth stacked by the sign reading  _ Mysteries _ . Oh, that sounds nice, actually. He has vague memories of reading detective stories with a flashlight under his blanket as a child, of spending his lunch breaks at school working his way through riddle books. He steps around the Archivist and goes to examine the selection. 

Before he reaches it, the door chimes again and the front of the store goes quiet. Then there’s a rustle and a thump from the direction of the till counter, followed by what sounds like Jon muttering to themself. Martin hesitates briefly. There’s another thump, and Martin decides to skirt toward the till counter again, his curiosity about Jon and the shop blossoming a little more in his chest.

Before he makes it past the shelves, though, there’s a sharp ringtone. Martin stops and pretends to be looking at another shelf - the romance novels, apparently - so Jon doesn’t think he’s trying to eavesdrop on his phone call.

“Hello, Tim,” Jon says distractedly. He drops a book into the box on the counter; that explains the thumping sound. “Wait. That’s tonight?... Eight? I - I don’t know, I’m… I’ve got so much to do… Yes, I know… Do you think Georgie will be angry if I don’t come?” The last sentence is small, nervous. “... Actually that’s probably worse. No, don’t come here, Tim. I’ll…” They sigh. “I’ll try, okay? I’ll just meet you there if I get caught up… Right. You too.” 

Martin glances over. They stand looking silently down at their phone, a clouded expression on their face.

“Um, everything okay?” Martin coughs lightly.

Jon startles. “Oh! Martin, sorry, yes. Just. Realized how badly time’s gotten away from me today.” He laughs ruefully and rubs his eyes before dropping his phone into the front pocket of his overalls.

Martin shifts. He thinks this is his cue to leave, to get out of Jon’s way so they can get back to work. But he looks around again at all the boxes of books yet to be shelved and thinks about Jon’s shrinking voice as he’d had to back out of apparent plans because of those books and squares his shoulders before he can talk himself out of it. “How can I help?”

Jon’s mouth forms a little O shape. “H-help?” he stammers after a beat. 

“Yeah. What can I do? Clearly the Archivist isn’t pulling his weight, so I might as well do what I can while I’m here.” He smiles, hoping distantly that he’s coming across as friendly rather than pushy. 

“Oh, oh, you don’t - you really don’t have to,” Jon says, clearly flustered. They wave their hands around helplessly. 

“I know,” Martin says evenly.

Jon blinks and stammers wordlessly for a few moments. Then he shrugs. “Well - if you - if you really want to, it’s…”

Martin moves to pick up the box that’s perched on the countertop. “Just tell me where to put them.”

\---

The thing is, Jon  _ really  _ hates owing anyone a favor. It makes him feel squirmy and uncertain, like he’s standing on unsteady ground. Georgie has spent years coaxing him into asking for help, but even on a good day he can barely accept it when it’s  _ offered _ without feeling out of sorts. 

Which is why he’s rather over his head now that Martin is carrying one of his boxes through the shop. They’d  _ just  _ repaid the favor by letting him pick out a free book, and now here he is quietly helping them again, face as full of soft concern and kindness as it had been when he’d let them into his flat last night. But he can’t - it’s not like he can demand Martin leave like he would with Tim or the others when they try to help around the shop. He saved the Archivist! And he’s nice and gentle and doesn’t deserve to be waved off for being a good person. That would be  _ rude _ . Jon refuses to be rude to the man who rescued their cat. Unless it’s rude to accept free labor from the man who rescued one’s cat.

Unfortunately, this is not Jon’s first crisis over what constitutes the greater of two rudenesses.

At least the anxiety the entire dilemma brings about is a convenient excuse for the butterflies in his stomach.

Never mind that they’d shown up the instant he realized Martin was here, that he’d come to the shop after all. Nor that they hadn’t faded the entire time he’d been helping the other customer, aware of Martin moving just out of sight between his cluttered shelves, as if he were mapping his way through Jon himself rather than the books.

Jon wrings his hands and follows Martin to the nonfiction section.

“Here?” Martin asks. When Jon nods, he carefully lowers the box to the floor and takes out the first book he finds. “What’s the sorting system?”

“U-um, author’s last name.” Christ, Jon’s voice hasn’t broken like that since the first year of his testosterone injections. He swallows. “Haven’t had time to get much more detailed than that.”

“Works for me,” Martin says, low and friendly and reassuring. If he’d spoken to the Archivist like this last night, it’s no wonder he’d been so calm after being carted off to a strange place. Even Jon feels himself relaxing slightly, twitching hands finding stillness long enough to grab a few books out of the box and begin shelving them alongside Martin.

“How long have you had the shop?” Martin asks.

“I’ve worked here for… hm, going on seven years now. But I only took it over myself this year.” Jon lifts onto his tiptoes to shelf the book in his hand. 

“Must be a lot of work,” Martin says.

It doesn’t sound like he thinks it’s  _ too much  _ work. He sounds… admiring, almost. Jon doesn’t look at him. He’s probably imagining it anyway, but he can’t check to be sure. He already knows his face is warm and he can’t risk making that worse by doing something silly like accidentally meeting Martin’s eyes and losing his tenuous grasp on his composure. So he just clears his throat a couple of times and says, “Yes, well, you know how… capitalism is.”

“Regrettably, I am aware,” Martin says gravely. Then, “Oh,  _ Gardening for Beginners _ . Maybe I need that. Could use some plants to brighten my flat.” He flips through a few pages of the book in his hand. “What are the ones in your flower box upstairs?”

Jon brightens. “Asters! You might know them as Michaelmas daisies? Mine are Frikart’s asters, to be precise. If you like the purple blooms, that’s the variety to go with. They’re bright, which is nice because they bloom right when most flowers are dying, so they brighten the place up. Oh, and pollinators  _ love  _ them! I actually see butterflies on them sometimes.” They can feel their words spilling out faster and faster, but they stop themself before they get lost in the excitement. He bites his lip, half afraid to look over at Martin in case he’s got one of those shriveling looks of disinterest on his face, but when he does turn his head he’s met with an encouraging smile.

“I’m listening,” Martin says. 

Oh. Jon smiles back. “Actually, people also used to think asters made honey sweeter. And they were thought to be good for other things too, like keeping off evil spirits or curing bites from mad dogs. They’re very multipurpose.”

“How hard are they to care for?” Martin asks. He reaches to place a book on the highest shelf. He’s very tall, Jon realizes suddenly. 

“Not very!” They pointedly don't look at the soft swell of belly that’s revealed when Martin’s shirt lifts slightly. (There are freckles there. Fascinating.)

By the time Jon’s finished explaining the minute details of aster care, they’ve emptied the box and have moved to another shelf to unload a second one. He’s not sure when his explanation shifts from plant tending to window box building, but Martin just nods along and asks the occasional interested question. Jon offers to let him borrow his tools if he decides to build one of his own, and Martin answers that he’ll think about it. He seems like he  _ will  _ think about it, not that he’s brushing Jon away, which prompts Jon to pull out their phone and text him a link to the shop they purchased their other materials at. They’d had very good prices. It would be a shame for Martin to get a bad deal somewhere else.

The Archivist follows them from shelf to shelf as they work, wandering between the two of them to seek out scritches from whoever he judges to be the most available at the given moment. Martin bends down to comply every time. His cat-speaking voice is much higher than his Jon-speaking voice, but they’re equally kind and open.

Jon is glad once again that the Archivist had fallen into such good hands last night. Then he tells Martin as much.

Martin’s cheeks tinge with pink. “I’m happy I found him. He’s a delight.”

_ So are you _ , Jon almost says. He takes a step back, scandalized at himself, and scoops up the box they’ve just emptied. “Oh,” he says, “that was the last one.”

Martin looks around as if surveying their work. “That wasn’t too bad after all.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Jon agrees. It probably would have taken him half the night to do it alone, especially if he’d had to drag a stool around to reach the top shelves where an irritating number of the books belonged. It was… nice, he had to admit, to have the help. Especially from someone with as high a reach as Martin.

Martin checks his phone. “Oh, it’s past your closing time!”

Jon looks at their own screen. 7:30. He blinks, surprised. “I guess I have time to go after all,” he says. It’s a relief. He really hadn’t wanted to disappoint Georgie, who’d spent too much time arranging an outing that fit everyone’s schedules. She’s excited about the girl she’s bringing along, someone she’d met at a networking event and had gone on a string of increasingly successful dates with. 

“I’ll be on my way, then,” Martin says, following him toward the front of the store. “Have fun at your - well, have fun.”

Jon places the empty box on the counter and digs his keys out from one of the drawers. “Thank you, Martin,” he says. “You were - you’re very kind to help me.”

“It was no problem,” Martin says in a tone that’s easy to believe. “It was nice, even. I like your shop.”

Jon can feel themself forgetting how to speak. “O-oh, thank you, you’re… thank you. I liked… talking to you.”

“That too.” Martin smiles. “I’ve got some more research to do now.”

“Yes. That.” Jon doesn’t look down at his feet to avoid making eye contact for any longer, but it’s a near thing. 

Martin walks with him to the door, then waves as Jon begins to turn the key in the lock. “Bye, Jon.”

“Bye, Martin.” Jon watches him head down the street before turning to hurry in the other direction. 

It isn’t until he’s almost at the pub where Georgie had instructed the group to meet that he realizes Martin never chose a book to take home.

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theyrejustboys)!!


End file.
